Free The Courtship Dance by Candace Camp Page B

Everson?”
    “Yes. I saw her across the way.” Francesca gestured vaguely about the theater.
    “Yes. So did I.” Rochford looked at her oddly. “Well, then…pray allow me to escort you.”
    “What?” Now it was Francesca’s turn to stare at him. “You?”
    She was well aware that the duke had avoided Mr. Everson like the plague ever since the man had tried to inveigle Rochford into some investment scheme in India. Why, just a few weeks ago Callie had related, laughing, the way Rochford had spent an entire weekend at Lord Kimbrough’s country house dodging Mr. Everson. Why would he be volunteering to enter the man’s presence now?
    “Yes,” Rochford returned her gaze blandly. “I.”
    “But I—That is—”
    “Yes?” He cocked an eyebrow in that maddening way he had.
    Francesca swallowed. “Of course. How nice.” She turned to the other woman with a smile. “Lady Althea, would you like to accompany us?”
    Althea blinked and cast a glance across the theater—no doubt wondering, Francesca thought caustically, what was so interesting about the Eversons.
    “Yes, all right,” she said after a moment, also rising to her feet.
    Rochford stepped aside to let the women pass in front of him, but before Francesca was halfway to the door, there came a knock, and then it opened.
    Galen Perkins stood framed in the doorway.
    Francesca stopped abruptly, and for a long momentthere was nothing but silence in the small room. Then Perkins bowed and stepped inside.
    “Lady Haughston. You look lovelier than ever. I would have thought eight years would have aged you, but clearly you have found some magic potion.”
    “Mr. Perkins,” Francesca answered through tight lips, thinking that she could not say the same about him. She had never liked the man, but he had once been attractive. Years of dissipation, however, had padded his once-lithe frame and blurred the lines of his face. His golden curls, though still artfully tousled, had lost much of their glimmer and were growing thinner, and there was a jaded look in his pale blue eyes.
    “Please accept my condolences on your loss,” he went on. “Lord Haughston was a good friend to me. I was very sorry that I was out of the country when he passed away.”
    “Thank you.”
    Rochford stepped past the women, placing himself in front of Francesca. “Perkins.”
    “Rochford,” the other man replied, looking faintly amused at the duke’s gesture.
    “I am surprised to see you here,” Rochford went on flatly.
    “Indeed? I wished to speak to Lady Haughston. I could not ignore the presence of an old friend.”
    “We were never friends,” Francesca told him.
    “Such harsh words,” Perkins responded, the small, disdainful smile never leaving his lips. “After all theyears that we have known each other, I would not have thought you could be so unkind.”
    “I did not mean that I was surprised to see you here in this box,” Rochford explained sharply, “though it is somewhat presumptuous, given your lack of invitation. What I meant was that I would not have thought to see you in London after your precipitous departure eight years ago.”
    “That is all in the past.”
    “A man’s life can scarcely be shrugged aside so easily,” Rochford retorted.
    “I can see that you have not changed,” Perkins drawled. “You always were a sanctimonious sort.” He turned toward Francesca, adding, “Setting your sights higher this time, my dear? I wonder what poor Andrew would think.”
    Francesca stiffened. It had slipped her mind over the years how thoroughly she disliked this man.
    But the duke spoke before she could open her mouth to deliver a set-down. “I think it is time you took your leave, Mr. Perkins.”
    Perkins’ lips tightened, and for a moment Francesca thought he was going to shoot back an angry retort—or worse—but then he visibly relaxed. “Of course, Your Grace.” The honorific sounded like an insult on his lips. Perkins bowed toward Francesca and